


We Are the Vague Yet Menacing Government Agency

by tangleofrainbows



Category: The X-Files, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-13 11:09:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9120994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangleofrainbows/pseuds/tangleofrainbows
Summary: Mulder is convinced that he's found the mother of all government conspiracies in a small town in the American Southwest. A reluctant Scully follows along to find a lively desert community where the sun is hot, the moon is beautiful, and mysterious lights pass overhead while they try to sleep.(Updates are going to be *extremely* erratic.)





	1. Beware the Lack of Dog

**Author's Note:**

> Some general setting notes:  
> • I’m bumping the X-Files timeline up such that it takes place in the 2010s instead of the 1990s, but other than that, I’m not being super strict about trying to line up the timeline of either show. (#TimeIsWeird) This starts roughly around Season 5 of The X-Files and a little after Carlos’s post-StrexCorp-overthrow return from the desert otherworld in WTNV, but the operative word here is *roughly*  
> • A few people outside of Night Vale listen to Cecil’s show, but it’s not the Internet Phenomenon it is IRL  
> • Scully has a desk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mulder thinks he’s found something suspicious in the deserts of the southwest, but Scully isn’t convinced. As is usually the case, Mulder decides to go chasing after it anyway, with Scully following reluctantly in pursuit.

“Scully, wait until you get a load of this!”

Mulder is in an unusually good mood this morning, the kind of good mood that Scully has come to dread. It’s not that she  _likes_ dealing with him when he’s gloomy and disgruntled, but when he’s this bouncy, it can only mean he’s come up with some new harebrained theory about aliens, the supernatural, and massive government conspiracies. And indeed, before she’s even had time to react, the blinds are down, the slide projector is out, and Mulder is eagerly watching for her reaction to the image on the screen.

“It’s a dog park?” She’s not really asking. It’s a dog park. It says so right on the elaborate wrought iron gates. They’re surprisingly tall and intimidating for dog park gates, but still. It’s a dog park.

“That’s sure what it looks like, isn’t it? But look closer!” He clicks to the next slide, which is an enlarged view of a notice on the lower part of the gate.

“What—”

“No dogs, Scully! The sign says no dogs! Why would anyone build a dog park and then ban dogs from using it?”

“Mulder, it’s obviously a prank. Some kids just printed out a fake ‘No dogs’ sign and stuck it up for fun. The image could even be photoshopped for all we know.”

“That’s what I thought at first, too, but then I did a little digging. Look—” He clicks thru six or seven additional slides of similar photographs “Every picture of this supposed ‘dog park’ has the sign.”

“So maybe everyone there thought it was a funny joke and left it up.”

“Come on, Scully, don’t you think this means something?”

“What on earth could it possibly mean?”

“I don’t know, but it sure seems suspicious. I want to go check it out.”

“Mulder, we can’t just— Being ‘suspicious’ isn’t grounds for an investigation.”

He chuckles, and Scully’s stomach sinks. “Maybe not, but this is. That dog park is from Night Vale, the same city where this guy lived.” He clicks to the next slide. It shows a man in his mid 40s — is he Russian? Czech? Definitely Slavic, at any rate — wearing a large, cartoonishly inaccurate Native American headdress.

“Seriously? Look, this is definitely racist, but it’s not  _illegal_ to be offensive to—”

“ _Lived_ , Scully.” Mulder carefully enunciates the past-tense marker. “He disappeared mysteriously over a year ago. No missing person report was ever filed, because if you ask anyone in town, they’ll say that he turned up again a few months later. Only the thing is, the person they say turned up looks like this:” He clicks again, and the screen shows the face of a member of an Apache tribe.

Scully looks at him incredulously.

“I’m serious, Scully! Ask anyone in Night Vale and they’ll tell you that the guy your looking at right now is the same person as the guy in the previous slide.”

“But that’s absurd! They look nothing alike!”

“I agree! Which makes me wonder what’s going on here. Worth looking into, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know . . . ”

“Come on! A man disappears and is replaced by someone who looks  _nothing_ like him, and an entire town pretends that nothing’s wrong? It doesn’t add up. Someone’s hiding something, and we’re not going to be able to figure out what it is from here.” He watches as Scully continues to radiate skepticism. “Can we at least take it to Skinner to see what he says?”

* * *

“You really think there’s something here?” Assistant Director Skinner has listened to Mulder’s entire presentation with stony-faced impassivity. It’s not the wildest idea he’s heard Mulder present, but it’s up there.

“I do, sir—” Mulder leans forward to continue pressing his case, but Skinner cuts him off.

“Not you.” He turns very pointedly to Scully. “You.”

Scully takes a carefully measured breath. “Well sir, if what Mulder’s saying is correct about the disappearing man and his unconvincing replacement, that would certainly suggest someone is hiding something. But from the available evidence, I’m not convinced that there’s been any criminal activity that would warrant federal intervention. At  _most_ I think we have grounds to call the field office over there and try to get ahold of the Night Vale Police Department. I’m sure they’ll be able to clear up whatever the confusion is with this . . . Apache impersonator.”

Skinner sighs. “All right, so that would be what, Arizona, New Mexico, California?”

For the first time all day, Mulder seems genuinely flustered. “Uh, Night Vale is in . . . ” He flips back and forth thru the pages of the case file, looking for any information on which state the mysterious dog park is in. “Well I guess it’s . . . Uh, it’s definitely in the southwest somewhere . . . ”

“Sir, if I may make a suggestion?” Scully cuts in delicately, and Skinner gestures for her to go ahead. “Why don’t Mulder and I go look up the Night Vale PD’s phone number and make a few discreet inquiries ourselves? If we find anything of interest, we’ll report back to you before going any further.”

“That sounds like an excellent idea, Agent. Let me know if you find anything.”

Mulder and Scully rise to leave, but Skinner gestures for Scully to stay a moment after Mulder is out the door. 

“Agent Scully, don’t let this one get out of hand, OK? I don’t want this to turn into another fiasco like that fake vampire kid.”

“Understood, sir. I’ll keep him under control.”

* * *

Finding the number for the Night Vale Police Department turns out to be more difficult than Scully anticipated. She was hoping they would have a website, but unfortunately it seems that the trend of small town governments establishing an online presence hasn’t made it to Night Vale’s corner of the world just yet. Searching for “Night Vale” also doesn’t tell her what state the city is in, tho it does turn up several more pictures of the dog park, mostly on conspiracy theory sites trying to make a big deal about the ‘No dogs’ sign. She doesn’t show any of these to Mulder. She also finds a few sites devoted to following the town’s local public radio talk show, but the recordings she can find seem garbled — instead of weather reports, there are music segments, and the traffic reports (which she hoped would at least give her some highway names to go off of) seem to have been switched with some kind of experimental poetry reading. These she  _does_ show to Mulder; she figures he’ll either fix the glitch and get some useful intel, or at the very least be so distracted trying that he’ll stay out of her hair.

After an hour of fruitless searching, she decides to wing it and calls the central directory.

“Hi, this is Special Agent Dana Scully, I’m looking for the number for the Night Vale Police Department. I’m not sure what state.”

“Of course, Agent Scully, one moment.” There is a pause with the faint sound of a computer keyboard clicking in the background. “Hm, I’m sorry Agent Scully, I’m not seeing anything come up. Are you sure that’s the full, accurate name of the department? It’s an old system, and we need exact matches.”

“Oh, no, I’m sorry. It could be the Police Department, or just Police. Or I guess Sheriff’s Office or County Patrol or anything like that. At this point it couldn’t hurt to search for the Sheriff’s Secret Police, even.”

She meant it as a joke, but there’s an instant blast of static followed by a harsh click. Unbeknownst to her, every clock in the J Edgar Hoover Building breaks, each displaying a wildly different time on its frozen face. For an instant, Scully hears the hollow ringing of distant bells on the other end of the line, and then there’s a new voice in her ear.

“Sheriff Sam, who is this?”

“Oh, hello, are you the Sheriff of Night Vale?”

“You called me, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes, sorry, of course. My name is Dana Scully, and I’m a special agent with the FBI.”

“We’re not making donations over the phone at this time.”

“I . . . What?”

“Yeah, yeah, Food Banks International. You keep calling and asking for donations, we don’t do that.”

“O— Officer, I’m with the  _Federal Bureau of Investigation_. Not a food bank.”

“The federal who of what, now?”

“The Federal Bureau of . . . Are you aware that imitating an officer of the law is a crime?”

“Who’s doing any imitating?”

“You don’t  _seriously_ expect me to believe that you’re an actual sheriff, do you?”

“Yeah, Sheriff Sam, that’s me. You have any suspicious activity to report, or not?”

“No, I’m actually hoping that  _you_ —”

“Well then quit wasting my time. There are some Desert Bluffs types over in Mission Grove Park that I need to go monitor. Call back if you have any  _actual_ information to report.”

And the line goes dead. The entire phone unit, in fact, is dead, and smells faintly of vanilla. Scully stares for a moment into the middle distance, vaguely wondering when Mulder assembled her paperclips into a miniature modernist sculpture, then reaches a decision. Against all her better judgement, she’s going to follow Mulder’s lead.

* * *

 

Later, neither Mulder nor Scully will be able to recall exactly how they got to Night Vale. Scully remembers the morning vividly. She remembers calling Mulder, asking him to come over and pick her up. Overnight, someone had filled her lawn with plastic flamingos, and she needed to remove them all before she left. She remembers the garbage cans for her apartment being full, and hastily shoving the flamingos into Mulder’s trunk. They must, surely, have driven to the airport, then, and done all the usual flight check-in rigamarole. (Mulder must have figured out where Night Vale was and bought tickets, Scully will think. Mulder will think the same of her.) And then they must have flown . . . A direct flight from Washington DC to Night Vale seems highly unlikely, but neither of them can remember any transfers. Neither of them, in fact, can remember any of the rest of the journey at all. They never talk about this to each other, or to anyone else, but after climbing into the car with the flamingos, the next thing either of them can remember is getting out of a car — surely a rental from the airport? But then why is it so familiar, and why are there dozens of plastic flamingos visible in the back? — and standing under a bright hot desert sun, looking up at a pair of massive wrought-iron gates set imposingly into black obsidian walls.

The top of the gates proclaim this to be a DOG PARK.

A small sign at the bottom clarifies that no dogs are allowed. 


	2. And the Law Won

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Citizens are not supposed to think about the Dog Park. Citizens *are not supposed to think about the Dog Park*. 
> 
> Citizens are thinking about the dog park.

Scully and Mulder stand on the sidewalk, shading their eyes and looking up at the dog park’s walls. The air is still but fresh, the sound of a distant helicopter the only sound disturbing the tranquility. Scully walks up to examine the “No Dogs” sign that had set this entire caper in motion. It appears, inexplicably, to be a genuine sign put up by the city government.

“OK, so you were right about the sign.”

“And I bet I’m right about the Russian/Apache guy too.”

“So what do you want to do now? Do you want to poke around the dog park here while I go see if I can talk to the Sheriff?”

“Yeah, sure, couldn’t hurt.” Mulder steps forward to rattle the massive gate. “You know, it’s funny, in all the photos, this looked like just a regular gate, but now that we’re here . . . does it bother you that you can’t see what’s on the other side?” It bothers Mulder, but there’s something else, too. It looks suspicious, like a secret military base. Or, rather, what you would expect a secret military base to look like. But Mulder’s  _been_  on secret military bases (he insists, despite the official reports), and they don’t look like this. They’re bland, banal — they manage to hide in plain sight by looking too ordinary to be worth investigating. This is not doing that. This Dog Park (or whatever it is) is advertising its strangeness, begging to be noticed. It’s like whoever built it  _wanted_  you to think you were looking at a secret military base instead of whatever it actually was. (In the back of his mind, the notion that this “military base disguised as a dog park” is actually a dog park disguised as a military base floats past, disquieting and absurd.)

“Well whatever’s there,” Scully replies, demonstratively jangling the heavy, padlocked chain holding the gates closed tight, “I’m guessing it isn’t people walking their dogs.”

The distant helicopter, which has been growing slowly but steadily louder, suddenly roars into a deafening foreground as police cars screech around the corner to box them in from both sides. Mulder and Scully instinctively press their backs up against the gate of the dog park and reach for their badges as officers begin to pour out of the cars. The helicopter is now directly overhead, and an additional officer — who, going by the size and ornateness of their hat, seems to be in charge — rappels down to the ground and begins shouting thru a bullhorn as the chopper thrums off.

“Attention citizens! Please remain calm! You are being detained on charges of acknowledging the existence of and openly talking about the Dog Park. Do not resist!” The accent is strange, vaguely British, but with a hint of a southern drawl. Scully knows at once she has heard it somewhere before, but in the heat of the moment, she can’t place it.

“FBI! FBI! We’re with the FBI.” Mulder barks out.

“I should have known you Food Bankers would escalate to sending representatives!” The officer is only a few feet away, but still has not put down their bullhorn.

“No, the Federal Bureau of Investigation!” Scully clarifies for the second time in as many days.

The officer is close enough that Scully can make out their badge. It says “Sheriff Sam” in an ornate font, and appears to be bedazzled with rhinestones. Sheriff Sam snatches Scully’s badge and throws it on the ground without looking at it. “A likely story! If you’re going to steal our precious resources, at least have the courtesy to be honest about it.”

“We’re not from a food bank!” Scully snaps, at the same time as Mulder’s “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Enough! You will come with me to await further processing. You will come voluntarily, or we will inflict the maximum penalty for resisting arrest summarily and without delay.”

“Now wait just a goddamn minute—” Mulder starts, before Scully cuts him off by hissing his name and jerking her head to indicate the ring of officers surrounding them.  Whatever “further processing” is, it’s probably better than escalating things here. She bends down quickly to retrieve their badges, and then they allow Sheriff Sam to usher them into the shadowy backseat of one of the many police cars blockading the road.

* * *

“Further processing” mostly just seems to mean booking them into a holding cell for the night. The car ride there doesn’t feel long, but it must have been, since it’s quite dark by the time they arrive. At first they try to pump Sheriff Sam for more information, but the officer remains stoic and silent behind the wheel, as tho they are driving their assigned beat utterly alone. Mulder and Scully know each other well enough by this point to wordlessly decide that they’re going to try to make a break for it once the car stops, but whoever these people are, they’re obviously expecting this, and as soon as the car stops, there are bulky agents blocking any possible escape and brusquely shoving them into a holding cell in practiced, disciplined silence.

The cell itself is in a rather dilapidated jail. The bars that surround them are sturdy enough, but security seems to consist of a single elderly guard, and the cell next to theirs clearly has a gaping hole in the wall that has been covered over with a bedsheet saying “there is definitely not a hole here and even if there  _were_ a hole here escaping thru it would be HIGHLY illegal so don’t even THINK about it”. They’re not handcuffed, and no one frisks them for weapons.

For the next several hours, Mulder and Scully engage in a breathless whispered debate about what’s going on and what to do next. Mulder wants to try breaking out (possibly by way of the badly patched hole in the wall next door), but Scully that this is all some kind of bizarre misunderstanding that will be cleared up in the morning. She tries calling Skinner (Mulder left his in the car), but she doesn’t get reception in the cell. (Her phone also says it’s 1983, so it’s possible this seemingly low-tech dump actually has some sophisticated jamming software going on, and other nasty surprises to boot. This is another reason she’s hesitant to try breaking out.) The guard sits and stares at them motionlessly and emotionless, her hollow eyes boring down into them relentlessly. The two FBI agents each shudder every time they look her way, and soon they can feel her gaze even when their backs are turned.

At last, there is nothing to do but sleep. They have each been provided with a bed (complete with complimentary breath mints!), and unconsciousness is swiftly upon them.

* * *

Scully wakes up around three in the morning to moonlight shining down from a high window onto a figure sitting on the bench outside their cell. As she comes to, she begins to make out details — the figure is dressed casually but well, wearing sturdy shoes, loose jeans, a light sweater, and a delicately patterned hijab. Scully props herself up in bed to get a better look, and the figure seems taken aback.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” The voice is light and clear, but also a little mournful. “I just wanted to see for myself if it was really true. We get so few outsiders here. I mean  _real_ outsiders, from different parts of the country.”

“Who— Who are you?” Scully is not entirely convinced this isn’t a dream.

“Of course, you wouldn’t know. My name is Dana Cardinal, and I’m the Mayor of this town.”

“The Mayor?”

“Yes. I wasn’t even running in the election, but when the Hidden Gorge announced the results, I felt it was my duty to accept the position and serve to the best of my abilities.”

“What’s going on here?”

“You’re being held on charges of thought crimes. The City Council has forbidden citizens from acknowledging the existence of the Quality Of Life Improvement Area across from the Ralph’s, and if what Sheriff Sam has told me is correct, you were in fact being quite vocal about what you thought you were seeing. But don’t worry. I’m going to get you out.”

“What— How— Why?”

“The officers who booked you didn’t write down your names, did you know that? I’m going to have to have a word with them about professionalism.” It is, in some elliptical way, a request.

“I’m Scully. Dana Scully. I’m with the FBI.”

A slight frown flickers across Mayor Cardinal’s face. “I’m not sure I would advertise that so openly if I were in your position. Ever since they moved their annual Take Every Edible Item Of Food From The Ralph’s At Gunpoint Day to the day before Thanksgiving, they haven’t been terribly popular. Also, you don’t really look like one of them, so I’m sure you could pass as an ordinary citizen if you just didn’t mention it.”

“No, not that, the Federal—” But her heart isn’t in it, and when Mayor Cardinal cuts in, it doesn’t feel like an interruption.

“Do you know what it’s like to lead an army, Dana? To hear the low rumble of thousands of marching feet, to feel the vibrations running up thru your feet and into your bones, and to know that they are marching at your command? To look out at the field of battle and know that its geography is one you can have some hand in rearranging? To feel that all these lives depend on you, and you are responsible for any that are lost? I still think about the army sometimes. I think I miss them. I still see their faces, sometimes, when I close my eyes. Or, well, not their faces. Their masks. I guess it’s not that I miss them, altho I do, as much as I miss when everything was so clear-cut, when there was an obvious enemy, and an obvious way to defeat them. Things aren’t that simple when you’re a mayor.”

Scully waits for Mayor Cardinal to continue, but it seems that she has finished. “What does that have to do with getting us out?”

“When you lead an army, you come to realize things. Life happens so quickly, and small decisions can haunt you for years. Being in command is not the same as being a hero; sometimes the most decisive actions can be taken by the smallest, most unremarkable people. Someone doesn’t have to be  _from_ somewhere to do  _good_ there.”

“Oh?”

“I do not think Cecil announced this clearly on his show, but I believe the exact wording on the City Council edict is such that it only applies to citizens of this town. You and your friend are merely visitors, is that correct?”

“Yes, we’ll only be in town for a few days.”

“Then I do not think that the Sheriff has any grounds for arresting you on charges of local thought crimes. Of course, you are still subject to the laws laid down by the World Government, but so far they have yet to take an interest in whether citizens of other places are allowed to acknowledge our various Quality Of Life Improvement Areas, so you should be free to go.”

“That’s . . . very strange.” There is more that Scully wants to say, much more, but this place is beginning to get to her, and she decides to leave it at that.

“As long as you don’t go thru the process of our Naturalization Ceremony or break into City Hall to alter your birth records for tax purposes, you should be all right.”

“Why are you doing this?”

The Mayor shrugs. “You seem to have an inquisitive mind. This is a place of many secrets. It . . . troubles me how much I still do not know about my home, even after all this time. I hope . . . If I am not being too forward, I hope that you can help us find answers where we need them by looking where others are not allowed to see.” She rises to go. “Welcome to Night Vale, Ms Scully. It will be good to have you here.”


	3. Can You Hear Me Now?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It looks like Mulder and Scully may be stuck in Night Vale for a little longer than they thought they would be...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how in phone trees they have the pre-recorded baseline script, and then they have fill-in-the-blank moments that were either synthesized via text-to-speech or recorded at a different time, possibly by a different person? The phone tree in this chapter is like that — text in italics represents these disjunctures. I was trying to indicate it explicitly in the text, but it just broke up the flow really badly and got pretty confusing pretty quickly.

In the morning, after being released, there are several orders of business to attend to. The car they used to drive to the dog park is gone (along with Mulder’s cell phone), but their travel bags are waiting for them outside, carefully tucked up against the side of the jail. They lug them over to a roadside motel — seemingly unchanged since its construction in the 1950s, complete with garish neon sign and sun-bleached Space-Age color scheme — and check into two rooms before setting off in search of food. They’re still on foot (acquiring a new car being third on their list of priorities at the moment) so they can’t go far, but there’s a diner just down the road, and it won’t be the first time Mulder and Scully have started the day with over-greased food and scalded coffee.

Like the motel, the diner feels like a holdover from a bygone era. Mint green neon lights blare out around the outer walls even in the light of day, a giant menu hangs on the walls inside, and faux leather booths hunker permanently on a checkerboard floor. The air smells slightly of bread and rubber, and hissing speakers overhead play the sound of quiet anticipation.

Mulder, who has been in a brooding funk since the arrest, perks up a little as they settle in at a corner table. There’s something comforting about the kitsch, and the “local attraction” of invisible pie is delightfully absurd. Scully is a little disappointed to find that she won’t be able to order toast with her eggs (“Seriously, Mulder, this gluten-free craze can’t be over soon enough”), and resigns herself to the “ABSOLUTELY GUARANTEED FREE OF WHEAT AND WHEAT BY-PRODUCTS” hashbrowns instead. They joke a bit about accidentally stumbling into yet another cheesy themed restaurant when their server comes in what appears to be an elaborate dryad costume complete with fake branches sprouting into the air, and for a moment it feels like they’re back on one of their more regular cases.

The food is basically edible, the coffee basically caffeinated. There’s a little confusion about the check — neither of them see the server bring it over (the branches should be pretty hard to miss, right?), but when Mulder accidentally knocks over the tray of sugar packets, there it is, ready to be paid — and then they’re on their way. It’s time for priority two: Updating Skinner on their situation.

Scully’s phone still doesn’t have any reception (and also still says it’s 1983), so they head to a gas station in search of a pay phone. Miraculously, there is one, and Scully steps up to dial while Mulder ducks inside the station in search of sunflower seeds. The phone doesn’t seem to have a slot for coins, so Scully picks up the receiver and checks for a dial tone.

“Hello,” a pre-recorded voice says, “Thank you for choosing Pan-Am for your telecommunications needs. My name is Maggie and I will be your phone tree for today. Please enter the number you wish to dial followed by the pound sign.”

Scully is a little apprehensive at the outdated brand name (when  _did_ Pan-Am get out of telephones, anyway? She can’t quite remember.), but she goes ahead and punches in Skinner’s number.

“You wish to place a long-distance call to  _Assistant Director Walter Skinner_ of the  _Federal Bureau of Investigation_ in  _Washington, District of Columbia_. If this is correct, say yes, or press  _one_.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. Because this is a long distance call, rates vary by time. Do you know how long your call will last? Enter the time rounded to the nearest  _five_ seconds and press pound, or say ‘I don’t know’.”

“I don’t know.” Like so many things in Night Vale, this is not going as expected.

“What shoddy field work, agent.”

“I’m sorry—”

“The rate for a cross-country call of unlimited duration is 1 ( _one_ ) secret. Please whisper your secret into the handset and then _let the phone fall from your hands and dangle forlornly on its cord_ for  _twenty_ seconds.”

“A  _secret_??”

“A story. A fact. A statement of truth about yourself that is not known to any other persons. For definitions of other words, repeat them incredulously, like you just did. You’re very good at it.”

“I . . . I have no idea what’s going on.”

“OK, so good at incredulity and bad at secrets. Obviously you have no idea what’s going on, everyone looking at you knows this, that is not a secret. Also, the  _phone_ is still in your  _hands_ and is not  _dangling forlornly on its cord_. Please try again.”

Scully considers hanging up the receiver and telling Mulder the line was dead. But she needs to update Skinner on their situation, and her cell phone still isn’t getting any reception. So she thinks for a moment and then blurts out “I still miss Queequeg. I know I only had him for a few months, and it’s been years since the alligator took him, but every time I see a little Pomeranian I hope for a moment that it might be him.”

There is a slight pause, and then the pre-recorded voice returns, this time with a hint of gentleness. “Please remember to drop the phone.”

Scully lets it fall from her hand. It dangles forlornly on its cord, twisting and turning back and forth in the desert air. Twenty seconds later, she hears the line begin to ring, and she retrieves the phone, putting it to her ear just as Mulder walks back out, bag of sunflower seeds in hand. “It’s ringing,” she mouths to him, covering the mouthpiece with her hand. Mulder grunts in affirmation and settles in against the wall, absentmindedly popping seeds into his mouth and dropping the shells onto the sidewalk.

“Assistant Director Skinner.”

“Skinner, it’s Scully.”

“This isn’t the best time, Agent. Is this an emergency?”

“Well, not exactly, sir—”

“Then make it quick. I can wait for the full report.”

“I . . .” There isn’t really an abbreviated way to recount the events of the past 24 hours, so she doesn’t try. “It looks like we may be staying in Night Vale for longer than we originally anticipated, sir.”

“How long will you be away?”

“I’m not sure, sir, but it may be several weeks.”

“I thought I told you not to let this get out of hand, Scully.”

“It’s not Mulder, sir. There’s a lot to look into here.”

“A lot to look into, or criminal activity falling under federal jurisdiction?”

“I can’t say quite yet, sir.”

“If you can’t find a case by the end of the week, I want you back in DC.”

“With all due respect sir, we may need more time than that.”

Skinner sighs heavily. “Agent Scully, there are people here paying very close attention to every single thing you and Agent Mulder do. I would be  _very careful_ about straying from the rulebook, do you understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. Get me a case to assign you to, or get out of there.”

“Yes sir.”

And the Assistant Director is no longer on the line.

“He wants us back in DC?” Mulder hazards.

“By the end of the week, unless we have evidence of a specific crime.”

Mulder nods grimly. “That means we’re on to something, Scully. Someone’s putting pressure on him to call us back before we can find anything. We’ve gotta work quickly.”

“Well you know what that means, right?” Scully is beginning to feel the nervous energy of a case flowing thru her. “We’re gonna need to find another car.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maggie is 100% a creation of Melony Pennington (you can tell because they sound so similar). I’m not saying the person pressuring Skinner to call Mulder and Scully back is the Cigarette Smoking Man, but the person pressuring Skinner to call Mulder and Scully back is the Cigarette Smoking Man.


	4. Things That Dig Holes In The Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scully and Mulder have worked with non-cooperative police departments in the past, and they're not afraid to get their hands a little dirty in search of the truth.

It is a quiet night in the Night Vale cemetery.

This is not to say it is a  _silent_ night. There are the usual sounds of the evening — insects chirping, breezes sighing, agents of a Vague Yet Menacing Government Agency whispering into staticky radios and occasionally imitating jackdaws to throw off the Sheriff’s Secret Police — but no tiny armies are marching between the headstones, no executions require the re-resurrection of Dale Salazar, and the mysterious glowing lights in the sky are sticking pretty close to the Arby’s. Even the tarantulas seem otherwise occupied; there aren’t more than one or two per square meter this evening.

Two figures skirt furtively from grave to grave, shining a small flashlight on each of the headstones in turn. Some they pass by quickly while others hold their attention for a little longer, until at last they stop in front of one and begin whispering to one another with fierce urgency. The nearest secret agent frowns and begins scribbling on their pad furiously — these citizens are talking _much_ to quietly to be easily eavesdropped on; ze’ll have to send  _another_ note to that radio host reminding everyone to please talk loudly for the convenience of the hardworking surveillance teams.

“You have  _got_ to be kidding me.”, one of the figures insists.

“I don’t want to believe it either, Scully, but look at the stone.”

“Mulder, this headstone just says ‘The Apache Tracker’ — this  _can’t_ be real.”

“Well it doesn’t  _just_ say that. It also says ‘He was a racist embarrassment but he kinda also maybe helped save Night Vale so let’s call it a wash.’”

“ _Mulder_.”

“What do you want me to say, Scully? Nothing here makes sense.”

Scully has no answer to this. Nothing here  _does_ make any sense. So why  _not_ bury a man with a title instead of a name, and an insulting description to boot? She sighs. “Well I guess it can’t hurt to take a look.”

The cemetery is entirely covered in a layer of astroturf (it saves on the watering bills, surely, but why would the town buy a kind that specifically looks parched and patchy?), so the two of them peel back the square on top of the Apache Tracker’s grave and begin to dig. They work quietly, not saying much. The sandy desert soil is easy going, and it’s not long (at least in terms of other exhumations they’ve taken part in) until they reach the coffin. The lid isn't particularly well secured, and they pry it open to reveal . . . 

A corpse. Scully isn’t sure exactly what she was expecting, but she still feels vaguely let down by this discovery. It’s not a particularly well preserved corpse, but it’s no worse than any other dead body left in a box underground for several years in a desert. Part of her, she supposes, was hoping all the answers would be here, that they would have to go no further. But instead, it’s time for phase two.

* * *

There’s no way this plan should work. It’s completely absurd, and under ordinary circumstances, Scully would’ve been the one to shoot it down, not the one to propose it. But under ordinary circumstances, a used-car dealership would never have had body bags and hospital-grade emergency stretchers, so they’re clearly in unusual waters.

She takes a deep, steadying breath. “You ready for this, Mulder?”

He spits out a sunflower shell and nods — grimly or sanguinely Scully can’t quite tell in the dark. Then, as one, they put their hands on the stretcher between them and rush thru the emergency receiving doors of Night Vale General Hospital, making as much noise as they can.

“Attention hospital staff!” Scully shouts at the receptionist and anyone else in earshot, “I am Secret Agent Dana Scully and I am here from a government agency on Secret Government Business. I need access to an autopsy room  _right now_.”

The receptionist doesn’t so much as flinch. “Oh, are you from Vague Yet Menacing? We weren’t expecting—”

“You heard my partner!” Mulder cuts in, slamming his fists down on the counter. They have underestimated the distance from the door to the receptionist, and the stretcher clangs and skids a little as Scully tries to stop it without launching the body bag with the Apache Tracker’s remains in it into the air and onto the floor. “We’re here now, and we need a room,  _now_!”

The receptionist shrugs. “Down the hallway to the left. 143 should be open for you.”

Scully looks quickly back at the room, not bothering to figure out if the other people standing around are hospital staff or patients. “If  _any_ of you mention to  _anyone_ that we were here or that you assisted us in  _any_ way, there  _will_ be consequences!”

“But we still require you to give us your full and complete cooperation!” Mulder adds, then joins Scully and the stretcher in sprinting down the hallway.

The people in the receiving room look at each other and shrug. Normally the Vague Yet Menacing Government Agency likes to schedule their random emergency requisitions three months in advance, but drills like this aren’t exactly unheard of, and, as the head of the hospital PR office likes to point out, the incidence of random citizens impersonating government agents so they can dissect random corpses for fun is “the lowest of any General Hospital in Night Vale!”.

* * *

It is the most boring autopsy Scully has ever conducted. She’s seen bodies that were in better health, to be sure, but beyond the usual signs of age that attend forty-something-hood (and wounds consistent with the official cause of death (“being attacked by an army of miniature people”)), there’s nothing wrong with the Apache Tracker’s corpse. No capsules in the nose, no microchips at the back of the neck. Just a perfectly ordinary human cadaver.

She takes of her gloves and goes out to find her partner waiting in the hallway. She slumps against the wall with exhaustion.

“Mulder, I don’t think we have a case.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't find much information on the Night Vale Hospital or Cemetery, so I basically just made stuff up. If anything's in flagrant violation of canon, I may go back and fix it, or I may just make vague squid-like noises and retreat into the night.
> 
> Gonna try to get one last chapter up before classes start tomorrow!


	5. The Wild Purple Yonder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the end of the week, and Skinner wants the agents back in DC unless they have a concrete case to tackle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The phone tree reappears in this chapter! For an explanation of what’s going on there typographically, see my note at the beginning of Chapter 3.

“How can you say that, Scully? After all that we've seen here, how can you say there's no case?”

“I know, Mulder, I know. But the Apache Tracker was just a guy, and we don't have jurisdiction over general weirdness.”

“General weirdness? We were arrested for talking about a dog park!”

“I know, Mulder, I know. But they released us on a technicality and apologized. Skinner will tell us there’s nothing more to do.”

“Scully . . . ” Mulder lets his voice trail off, but that word contains everything he would have said. It is less of an argument and more of a plea, a plea for her to look the other way, to let him have just a little more time to find something to latch on to. To let him have just a few more days of hope. He  _needs_ this. He needs this town, with its helicoptered police and army-base dog park and mysterious nighttime lights. He knows that he can’t put that in a case report, that Skinner doesn’t care about his quest for the Truth, that this probably  _isn’t_ Official FBI Business, strictly speaking, but he needs Scully to understand. He needs _her_ on his side, at least, even if no one else is.

Scully sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose where her glasses rest. “Go back to the motel and get some sleep. I’m going to finish cleaning up here and then I’ll head back too. We’ll call Skinner and talk this afternoon.” She understands, of course she does. But who is Dana Scully if not the one who keeps Mulder’s wilder impulses in check?

* * *

She’s almost done cleaning up when someone else comes into the autopsy room. Had this happened earlier, she might have whirled and snarled about interfering with government work, but at this point, she barely has the energy to turn around as the figure stops, flustered in the doorway.

“Oh, I'm sorry! I didn’t realize anyone else was in here.” The voice is high and a little nasal, coming from a head with a shock of curling brown hair. Scully has the vague impression that the lab coat they have on doesn’t match the ones the rest of the hospital staff wear, but she’s hesitant to guess what that might mean.

“No, you're fine,” she replies wearily. “I’m just finishing cleaning up.”

“Ah, cool. I just need to grab some supplies.” They point awkwardly at a cabinet over in the corner.

Scully shrugs and turns back to the sink.

“Are you new here? I thought I knew all the doctors in Night Vale General, but I don't think I've seen you before.”

“Oh no, I'm not . . . I’m afraid I’m just passing thru.”

“Oh! How long are you in town for?"

"Not long. I'm probably heading out tomorrow, in fact."

“Oh.” If it’s possible to rummage thru a storage cabinet crestfallenly, the figure does so. “That’s too bad. It would have been nice to talk Science with you. We don’t get a lot of outsiders here, and sometimes I feel kind of disconnected from the broader Science community, you know? Sorry, I know I shouldn’t do that — I’m assuming you’re a scientist when you could be a doctor or a technician or a clever array of hedgehogs. But I mean, if you  _are_ a scientist, it would be— would’ve been— . . . Sorry, I feel like I should start over.” From under the pile of petri dishes and gauze balanced precariously in their arms, the figure extends a hand to shake. “I’m Carlos, I’m a Scientist. He/him/his.”

“Dana Scully, Medical Doctor, she/her/hers.” He’s clearly going for a brisk handshake, but hers winds up somewhere in the vicinity of bewildered.

“Ah, so not a Scientist, then.” If he’s disappointed, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he’s smiling, a dazzling, disarming smile that almost makes up for the fact that she’s been awake for going on twenty seven hours at this point.

“Well, I mean I do science as well.”

“Oh? That's  _fascinating_! You really have to leave town tomorrow? It would be so lovely to talk to someone who knows about such different worlds.”

“Uh, yes. I’m afraid I . . . really don’t have a lot of choice in the matter.”

The smile drops again. “Oh well. I guess it wasn’t meant to be. But if you’re ever in town again, drop me a line!” He waves cheerfully and heads out the door.

* * *

Mulder is asleep when Scully gets back to the motel. She wants to sleep herself, but she knows if she closes her eyes she won’t wake up until Skinner has left for the day back east. She toys with the idea of sleeping anyway, but she knows she won’t really do it. Since their cell phones still aren’t working, Skinner has no way of contacting them in an emergency, and if she doesn’t check in, there could be Repercussions. So she picks up the phone in her room and dials.

“You are attempting to make a  _long distance_ call to  _Assistant Director_ Walter  _Skinner_ of the  _Federal Bureau of Investigation_ in  _Washington, District of Columbia_. If this is correct, please say yes or press  _one_.” It’s the same pre-recorded voice from the phone tree at the gas station. Scully begins wracking her exhausted brain for secrets.

“Yes.”

“Oh, it’s  _you_ again. If you  _remember_ the procedures from your last call, say ‘I remember’ or  _press_ two.”

“I remember.”

“Do you know the expected duration of your call?”

“Still no. I’ll be paying with a secret again.”

“This is an  _off-peak_ call. The rate for an  _off-peak_ call is 1 ( _one_ ) recent realization. Our motel phones do not support  _dangling forlornly_ , so after stating your  _realization_ , please  _picture the shade of blue of a cloudless sky in September_.”

“I . . . I want to stay in Night Vale too.” She realizes this only as she says it. She thinks of autumn, and her father teaching her how to recognize which skies are good for sailing.

The phone begins to ring.

* * *

“Where are they, Agent Skinner?”

Skinner isn’t surprised that the Cigarette Smoking Man is in his office, but that doesn’t make him any less tense. “They’re out on assignment.”

“Where are they on assignment, Agent Skinner?” He blows a lazy stream of smoke into the air.

“I don’t have to tell you that.”

“My dear Agent Skinner,” the Cigarette Smoking Man’s tone is sickeningly sweet, “I do hope you’re not trying to impede my efforts. That would be most unwise given your recent . . . medical difficulties.”

Skinner clenches his jaw and fights the urge to punch the man in his smug, wrinkly face. But the man could kill him with the push of a button, and Skinner isn’t willing to die over this one. “They’re in Night Vale.” Skinner still doesn’t know what state it’s in.

“Night Vale.” The man turns the name over in his mouth, as tho he can learn more about it by savoring the syllables as they roll off his tongue. “And what would they be doing there?”

“They’re investigating a murder.” Skinner hopes that this is true. He hasn’t heard from Scully in several days, and he’s beginning to worry.

“A murder? I thought they were only assigned to crimes that smacked of the . . . paranormal.”

“Well they. . . there’s . . . they think that . . .” For once in his life, Skinner wishes he’d paid more attention to Mulder’s conspiratorial ramblings. “It’s possible that there are paranormal elements surrounding the last months of murder victim’s life.”

There is an uncomfortable pause.

“And have they . . . found anything?”

Skinner wishes that he could be relieved that the man isn’t pressing the issue, but this new territory isn’t any better. He settles on an anodyne “It’s been a while since their most recent field report.”

“Has it?”

Skinner lets it hang in the air.

“How sure are you of their location, Agent Skinner?”

“Are you impugning the trustworthiness of my agents?”

“I’m merely suggesting that Agent Mulder may sometimes have a tendency to . . . run with some of his more impulsive tendencies and wind up in situations that are . . . not the ones he initially says he is setting out to investigate.”

There’s another pause. Skinner can’t argue with that, Mulder  _does_ have a tendency to follow his gut with no regard for protocol or propriety, but Skinner isn’t about to throw him under the bus in the presence of the Cigarette Smoking Man, especially not with Scully’s career also on the line. The pause continues as the man blows more spoke into the sterile office air.

“Well, Agent Skinner?”

He’s saved from having to actually come up with an answer by the harsh ring of the telephone.

“Hello?” he barks into the receiver.

“Director Skinner, it’s me, Scully.”

“Agent Scully, what’s going on? It’s been days since your last report.”

The Cigarette Smoking Man gets up out of his chair and reaches over, casually flicking the phone into speaker mode.

“I’m sorry sir, there isn’t a lot of cell reception in this part of the world.”

“Do you have a case, or not?”

“I’m not sure, sir.”

“You’re not sure?”

“No, sir. There doesn’t appear to be anything unusual about the Apache Tracker’s death per se, but in the context of this town . . . ”

Skinner pauses, and the Cigarette Smoking Man raises an eyebrow at him, as if daring him to let the agents stay away longer.

“It’s a small town in the American Southwest. What does context have to do with it?”

“With all due respect, sir, it’s not an ordinary town.”

“Oh?”

Even across all the miles that separate them, the two men can practically hear Scully’s mind racing to come up with a way to explain this diplomatically. “No, sir. There is an . . . unusually prominent military or paramilitary presence here, with no clear purpose. Local law enforcement officers behave . . . erratically, and not in keeping with expected protocols. Even basic government records are difficult to obtain, and it seems . . . not implausible that certain officials are using bureaucratic incompetence as a front for covert cover-up operations.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“We need more time here, sir.”

“I’m not feeling particularly inclined to grant it, Agent.”

Scully’s sigh becomes a blossom of static in Skinner’s office. “I understand your hesitation, sir. We haven’t been able to give you much concrete information to go on, but—”

“No, you haven’t.”

“But this town might hold the key to everything Mulder and I have been investigating in our years working on the X-Files!” It’s a gamble, but at this point Scully can’t rule it out beyond a reasonable doubt.

“I don’t like it, Scully.”

“Is that a no, sir?”

It’s Skinner’s turn to sigh. “Without a request from local agencies to have a federal presence in the area, I’m not going to be able to keep you there.” He knows this is probably pushing it with the Cigarette Smoking Man, but he doesn’t think he’s over the line yet.

“I understand, sir. Since it’s Friday, sir, may we have until after the weekend to try to procure such a request?”

The Cigarette Smoking Man frowns, but Skinner says “Make whatever calls you need to on Monday, and report in first thing on Tuesday morning.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

Skinner hangs up the receiver, and his entire phone unit turns to glass.

* * *

Night Vale likes to hold on to its own. Occasionally one of their citizens will set out to make a life somewhere else, but more frequently they only make vague plans to, vague plans that are forever delayed by the vicissitudes of life. A graduate from the community college will decide they want to pursue a higher degree in their chosen field elsewhere in the country, but they have to stay until their parents are done renovating the house, and then they’ve fallen in love with someone who has one year left of school, at which point they’ll be in the middle of a critical project at the temporary job they took to tide them over, and suddenly they’re in their fifties and no longer interested in going anywhere much at all. From time to time, new folks will come in (Carlos, of course, being the most widely publicized example), but Night Vale is a hard place to find, and visitors are few. At times, it even feels like the town is a sentient being, carefully selecting who does and doesn’t belong. No one would dare to guess at how it makes this determination, but in a few very rare circumstances, it seems that the individuals themselves are allowed to choose.

* * *

“Is this really what you want?” Sheriff Sam wouldn’t meet with them, so Mulder and Scully have turned to the one government official who seemed kindly disposed to them. It’s early Monday morning, and Dana Cardinal is gazing at them gravely from across her desk, considering them carefully. Today her hijab is a lustrous russet brown, and in the context of the richly paneled mayor’s office, she strikes an imposing figure indeed.

“Yes.” Mulder says, with burning conviction. He is leaning forward eagerly, every inch of his body intent on this goal.

“And you, Ms Scully?”

Scully can feel the world spinning around her.  _Is_ this what she wants? She can see one future for herself stretching out back in DC. Continuing to work for the Bureau, investigating a bewildering warren of dead ends with Mulder in the vain hope of one day finding an answer she isn’t sure is even there. Surviving, hopefully, until she’s ready to retire, and then spending her golden years somewhere rural and quiet. And here . . . She isn’t sure why, but she is struck with utter certainty that saying yes to staying here means giving up on all of that. If she says yes to this mayor who shares her first name, she will never leave. She will stay in this bizarre town and make a life here, instead. She has no idea what that looks like. She can’t imagine how she would build a life here, how this place could ever feel like home. But somehow she knows that it someday will. If she says yes, she  _will_ one day think of Night Vale as the most comfortable, familiar place on earth. And that . . . that is not unappealing. Would it really be so bad to get away from Skinner, and the Cigarette Smoking Man, and all the conspiracies within conspiracies that seem to have enmeshed the Bureau from top to bottom? She might even be able to do some science.

She turns her head away from the window to meet the Mayor’s eyes. “Yes,” she says at last. “I think it would be good to spend more time in your town.”

Mayor Cardinal nods simply and picks up her phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the official X-Files writers can’t be assed to keep track of the Cigarette Smoking Man’s chronology, I’m certainly not going to be either. If it becomes pertinent later, I’ll post the Version Of His Life History That Is Canon For This Fic, but for this chapter I don’t think it really matters.
> 
> My grad school classes started up today, which means that I’m going to have very little time to work on this until Spring Break starts in March. I wanted to get this chapter out b/c it’s the end of what I’m thinking of as Part One of this fic. There will be at least three parts, total, plus an epilogue, but they’ll probably be pretty different lengths.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


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